Hating You Is Remarkably Easy
by TheJondretteGirls
Summary: Azelma is sick of her sister trying to win over that clueless boy. No, she's sick of her whole life. Nothing ever seems to go right, she's on her last nerve and that student with the curls really isn't making the situation any better...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hey :) I wrote this during Maths, because, let's face it, Maths is ****_really _****boring. Especially algebra. Meh. Oh, and this is based on the musical or movie, but a bit on the brick (well doh! It's got Azelma in it!). And I completely reinvented Azelma. She's snarky. Victor Hugo didn't give me much to work with. Heehee. Well, I don't really know what else to say... Except maybe, reviews much appreciated?**

'Ponine's making me come to another meeting. Again. Because, apparently, I can't be trusted by myself, and "there is no way I'm leaving you to damge my pride any further than you already have". I don't know what she's talking about. In fact, I think she's just dragging me along for morale support, because whenever she sees student-with-freckles she goes bright red. Or maybe it's student-with-glasses. Or poems. I don't know, they all look the same to me...

'Ponine sits me on a chair and tells me not to move. Really. Because obviously the seventeen year old pickpocket is incapable of looking after herself. I mean, I've only broken three vases, lost two francs and accidentally trodden on student-who-does-speeches toe once. But that wasn't really an accident, he was starting to annoy me.

So, I am stuck by myself. Again. And I have nothing to do. Again. And student-who-flirts is pointing at me. Again. And after this, student-who-does-speeches will make another speech, student-who-is-drunk wil say something stupid and 'Ponine will talk to student-with-freckles. Nothing ever changes, apart from maybe my sanity.

"Azelma!" 'Ponine calls. Oh no... She's probably said something offending to student-with-freckles and _I'm _the one who is going to have to get her out of deep water. Again. Did I mention that everything is _always the same_?

Ponine drags me to the corner of the café.

"He's met some girl, 'Zelma," she whispers, "and he wants me to find out who she is, where she lives."

"Mm-hm." I nod, half-listening, half wondering if it would look too repetitive if I stood on student-who-flirts toe as well.

"Azelma!" 'Ponine snaps, waving her hand in front of my face, "Are you even listening to me?"

"And then," I mutter, "student-who-does-speeches might get annoyed, but it would probably be worth it for the look on his fa- Oh! Yes, um, what were we talking about?"

"Marius."

"Marius?"

"Marius is... Oh, never mind. You wouldn't care anyway."

"Wait! Marius is... the one who does the speeches?"

"No."

"The one with the poems?"

"No."

"Um... the drunk one?"

"No."

"Ooh! I know! The one with _glasses_!"

"Look, Azelma, just don't worry about it, OK?"

I shrug. Well, that's one less Éponine crisis I need to think about. 'Ponine stalks off and leaves me alone at the table with only a twig for company. Nice twig, I muse, nice and... twig-like. Yes. Twigs are twig-like, well, the good ones are anyway.

"Are you using that chair?" A voice slurs from behind me. I turn round - it's student-who-is-drunk. I fold my arms across my chest.

"Does it _look like I'm using that chair_?" I scowl, rolling my eyes.

"No."

'Well, I am. I am using it to rest my feet on."

"No you're not."

"I will do. At some point in the near future."

"Maybe you will, but I think you'll find _I'm _going to use that chair."

"_But I am using it!_"

I rest my feet on the seat of the chair, just to prove a point, but student-who-is-drunk shoves them off and and slumps down on it himself. He grins, takes another swig from his bottle and rests his feet on the table.

"You aren't a bad looking girl, you know." he winks.

"Wow, Monseiur." I say, "Just wow. You don't even know my name and you're already flirting with me? That must be some kind of record. And honestly, just _how many girls have you said this to _today?"

He begins to count on his fingers.

"Seven? Give or take a few?"

I kick his chair, which probably does more damage to me than him, or even the chair. Scowling, I follow his lead and rest my legs on the table.

"Imitation shows admiration." he nods.

I throw my stick at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N So, this was written after I finished my Science test - should be marginally longer. :P**

"'Zelma, I don't know what to do!" whispers 'Ponine, tears falling in floods down her face. Every night. Every night she cries because he'll never love her back, and perhaps the first few times I felt sorry for her but now, now she's just wallowing in self-pity. And if this 'Marius' is still blind to my sister's love, the he doesn't deserve her anyway. But 'Ponine doesn't realise that. I saw her waiting by his apartment today, eyes wide with expectation. I want to scream at her. Student-with-glasses was looking at her today. So was student-with-poems and student-who-flirts. She could have anyone of them, but she goes after the one she can't. She's beautiful, my sister, but she hides behind veils of yearning and heartbreak.

'Ponine decides to find the girl for her 'Marius'. She thinks he'll like her even more. If anything, he'll like her less, head-over-heels for the usurper of love.

When 'Ponine finds out who it is, who _she _is, she runs straight past me, pulling out clumps of hair and banging the wall with her fist.

"Don't 'Ponine!" I cry, "You're bleeding!"

"I know," she snarls, turning to look at me, her eyes bloodshot.

"'Ponine," I touch her arm, "there will be other men."

"No one like him," she weeps, "and it's not just that. It's the girl."

"Who?"

"Cosette." she looks down, her voice shaky, unstable, failing. "Cosette."

...

'Ponine still goes to the meetings, despite the ache in her heart. She says that as long as she's with him she's happy. I'm adamant about not making an appearance, but she has me wrapped around her little finger, and perhaps I thought I owed her. So I come. I watch her converse with 'Marius' and I can see it's paining her. And I want to slap him so, so hard. Stupid boy.

There's only so long you can stare at a man break your sister's heart before it starts to get to you, ever so slightly. But I don't want to make things worse, so I move away and sit on a vacant table elsewhere.

Student-who-does-speeches is making another speech, and I realise I really should learn his name. Student-who-does-speeches is a bit of a mouthful. But then, learning his name would mean I was interested I was interested, and a boy who bores me half to tears isn't strictly someone I would be aware of.

_Revolution._

The word makes me seeth with anger. Who does he think he is? He thinks he knows what's happening, the terror, the fear, He knows _nothing_. And I'm tempted to go up there and _kick him_, but I hold back.

"Don't judge a book by its cover." I mutter. Ha! This isn't the cover. This is the whole story, and I don't like it one bit.

Student-who-is-drunk comes and sits next to me.

"Are you following me?" I question, raising one eyebrow.

"You, Mademoiselle," he says, "are sitting in my chair." I roll my eyes.

"I've become quite attatched to this chair." I say.

"Do you want a repeat of last time?"

Begrudgingly, I offer him the seat. Stupid student with his stupid seat. Why couldn't he get his own seat? Half because I'm annoyed, and half because I don't have anywhere to sit, I jump up onto the table, obscuring his vision. He scowls and pushes me off, fixing his gaze on student-who-does-speeches.

"Why're you watching him, Monseiur?" I sneer. Student-who-is-srunk mutters something about 'liberty' and 'freedom' and 'believing'.

"You?" I laugh, "Monseiur, I've met _rabbits _that are more revolutionary than you."

Student-who-is-drunk goes bright red, which makes me laugh even harder.

"You believe in nothing!" I say, in hysterics. He gulps and says:

"I believe in him." He looks me in the eyes, and I look down, too embarrassed to hold his gaze.

"Look Monseiur," I venture, "I really think I need to know your name. Because I've been calling you student-who-is-drunk in my head, and that takes an awful long time to say."

"Yes, because that's all I ever be," he spits, "Drunk."

"I'm Azelma..." I say, trailing off.

"Grantaire. And maybe, Azelma, you should leave. I think I need to be alone."

"But Monseiur!"

"Leave." he snarls, standing up, "Just leave."

**Does anyone else suddenly have the image of a revolutionary rabbit in their head?**


	3. Chapter 3

**DON'T GOOGLE IMAGES OF REVOLUTIONARY RABBITS! I WILL NEVER GET THOSE IMAGES OUT OF MY HEAD! THEY LOOKED LIKE ****_DEMONS_****. OK, warning over. But seriously. Don't. I'm scarred. Sorry this chapter is so short, I tried to make it longer but... it wouldn't go anywhere. I've written Chapter 4 as well though, and that's a lot longer. So yeah. :D**

I feel like such an _imbécile_. So utterly _stupid_. Private, sensitive subjects, Azelma. Don't talk about things you don't understand. And even if you do understand them , steer clear of the subject at all costs. All you're going to do is cause damage, and there are somethings best left unsaid. I pull down on my dress and straighten up.

"'Ponine!" I cry, "I'm leaving!"

"No, Azelma, there is now way - "

"Éponine!" I snap, "Leave it!"

I wrench open the door and slowly walk out, not daring to look behind in case anyone is watching... and maybe, just maybe... laughing.

...

Éponine finds me a few hours later resting on a paving slab, clutching my side. It had been so sudden. A sharp stabbing pain in my side, a glint of metal.

"I have no money!" I'd cried, pulling away, not quite fast enough, feeling the blood run down my leg.

"Who do you think you're kidding? Look a' you, what with your fancy dress."

I did. It was the dress 'Ponine had found me in the gutter a few days previously, washed it and handed it to me, saying it wouldn't fit her. I do look better in it. Richer, cleaner. I look at the bearer of the knife - he couldn't have been more than fifteen. A crooked grin, but desperate eyes. Alone. Take flight, I'd thought, both to him and to me - we were both in the same boat, however much he didn't realise it. The blood was trickling faster now, warm and sticky, new and fresh. So I ran. I ran despite the searing pain in my side. Ignore it, I'd told myself, just hold on for a bit longer. Stopping by a large house on the corner of the street, I'd tried to nurse myself, but all I could do was rip of a part of my dress to daub away the blood. For ten seconds, perhaps, it had worked, but the flow soon made its way past the barrier, and I was holding in my screams of agony once more.

...

"'Zelma, are you OK?" whispers 'Ponine. I've hidden most of the gash behind another cut-off from my dress. I nod, leaning my body against the wall.

"No you're not." she snaps.

"I'm fine! Don't you have places to be, people to see? Don't you have to help your _darling Marius _find his princess?"

'Ponine looks hurt for a moment, but her face soon darkens.

"You'll see," she snarls, "He's going to love me one day. He's going to see straight past that bourgeois girl, and look deep into me. And he'll love _me _Azelma, it's just a matter of time. You wouldn't understand. Besides... I love him. I would die for him."

I look at her. Properly. Her lopsided hat, her sunken eyes, her ragged dress. Who would love her? Honestly, deep down, I know the answer. _No one_.

"But would he do the same?" I whisper. 'Ponine says nothing. She strands strong, because she feels it's her duty. She turns on her heel.

But I can see the tears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey! I'm on a Shoujo Cosette TV marathon and I just watched Episode 44 - JEAN PROUVAIRE! :'( "It has been a pleasure... to have known you all..." Ohmigod, I practically ****_died_**** with him. It was just so... AND THAT WAS AN ANIME! Think what it could have been like on a ****_stage_****! Just... just go and watch it and try not to cry. :'(**

**And thank you so much for all the reviews - keep 'em comin'!**

* * *

I don't know how long I've been sitting here for. The nausea builds up in my throat, my vision becomes fuzzy and blurred. And then I do what I should have done ages ago - I cry. Because pain is just a sensation when it is physical, but when it hurts inside it fills you with such agony it's hard to breath. The foundations keep on crumbling and the whispers die away. I feel myself wretch and look down at my dress - torn and ridden with vomit. I try to keep my eyes open, to prove to myself I am not so weak I cannot see, but the darkness is inviting... I am not going to fight back.

...

"Azelma?"

"Leave me alone!" I shriek, not sure what is real and what is not. My heart pounds and my thoughts race.

"Azelma."

Who is it? And how do they know my name? What did I...?

"Azelma, it's me. From the café."

I look up through bleary eyes. It's the drunkard - Grantaire. But there is no stench of alcohol, and he looks... awake.

"You're sober." I whisper.

He raises his eyebrows.

"Thought I was incapable of it?"

"Very much so." A small smile flickers across my lips.

"You're bleeding Azelma." he says, bluntly, refusing to look me in the eye. Is he... is he still hurt? From what I said?

"Monseiur," I whisper, "There was a knife, and a stab and it hurt _so much_, but I didn't want to show I was afraid. So I ran, but there was _so much blood_... And 'Ponine found me and... asked me if I was OK, and... of course I _wasn't... _and then I asked her about... her _darling Marius_, and she tried to... look strong and turn away... but there were... there were tears and she left, and it's... it's all... my... fault..."

My breathing is shallow and frequent and my words fall apart like crumbling memories. I rest my head in my hands, not daring to look up. Grantaire looks stunned for a moment and then takes a deep breath.

"You were passed out, on the pavement," he says, "and I left you there. I walked past and I saw you lying there, but your words still stung. So I walked on by. And then I met your sister... 'Ponine, did you just call her? And she said that she was sure there was something wrong. And then I remembered. But I didn't want to tell her, because I didn't want to be held in any higher disdain than I already was. So... I ran back. I ran back to where I found you and took you back here, and then I realised the _blood_, Azelma..."

He rests his hand on my forehead.

"You're burning up," he continues, "and I'm no medical genius, but I'm pretty sure that's... not good. You need a doctor."

"I'm not seeing a doctor, Monseiur!"

"You are bleeding, retching and practically on fire. Of course you are seeing a doctor."

"I won't. He'll pry into my private business and ask questions I won't know how to answer... just one more night, Monseiur! One more night!"

He sighs.

"I'm largely going to regret saying yes, aren't I? But just one. Because I am not sleeping on the floor for more than one night."

"Oh no, I'll happily sleep on the floor! I'm used to it!"

"I suppose the gentlemanly thing to do would be to decline your offer... But yes, you can sleep on the floor."

...

I wake up in the small hours of the morning, thrashing around and covered in sweat. I jerk into a sitting position, and a burst of pain ruptures through my side. I let out a strangled gasp and take a deep breath in. I look across the room to where Grantaire sleeps on the bed. Two empty bottles lie on the floor. Sober? Ha! Not for long. Cautiously, I creep out of bed, taking care not to lean on my injured side. Taking a solid grip on the door handle, I wrench it open and slowly tiptoe downstairs. Breathing in the night air, I step out and let the breeze cover me. Ignoring the stench of blood and sickness, I let my hair fall back in my face. This is what I was born for. Midnight whispers. I close the door behind me and start to limp down the road.

I am going home.


End file.
